


The Formal Weather Patterns

by colberry



Category: the GazettE
Genre: Extended Metaphors, M/M, Manly Feelings, Metaphorical Glitter, Morning After, Off-screen smut, Power of Words, Reita is a patient man, Why they are up before noon - I don't know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 19:30:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colberry/pseuds/colberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because Ruki is the one who paints landscapes across shoulder blades and sinks his teeth into restless lyrics and smears charcoal across floorboards and can hold entire worlds between his fingertips.  And Reita understands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Formal Weather Patterns

 

 

Sometimes he wakes up with glitter on his chest.  A million and two breaths of shimmering stars laying atop his heart.  It's like a sidelong glance to the moon, even the sun is halfway across the sky and the coffee on his nightstand is cold.  
  
Sometimes Reita wakes up and it's still night because now all the blinds are closed and Ruki is sketching a layer of ink on his left palm that's dangling off the bed.  Navy scribbles, skulls, and the occasional lyric scrawled upon his pinky.  
  
And then he can't wash his hands for hours because Ruki can't stop now -- the brunet has found inspiration stuck between the heart and head-line, between his fingers, over his knuckles, within each pore and freckle.    
  
Even when he does finally rip his hand away -- the tickle of the pen tip still smiling and sighing across his skin -- Reita can't help but read it (over and over).  He tries to decipher each smudge of kanji that's been temporarily tattooed into his flesh.  It's a myriad of eccentric English phrases ( _"Scarlet suns between honest Stars", "power s_ _wallow"_ ) and kanji so archaic and seldom used, he makes a note to brush the cobwebs off the dictionary later.  
  
The words are still there (words like " _uranium smile"_ ) when Ruki places the new mug of coffee next to him.  Reita knows it'll be too weak -- five lumps of sugar, a quarter cup of milk and two creamers -- like it is every Tuesday morning after Ruki stays the night because _you're just  going to make me take a train at four in the morning all by myself where I could be shanked?  Move over._  
  
He doesn't hear the smaller man throw himself into a chair, the dilapidated thing creaking in protest at the rough handling, and begin lackadaisically peeling a clementine -- all the while prattling away, away.  
  
 _"So, I was thinking that mauve and juniper would be a fucking awesome palette for our next PV --"  
  
_ Reita's too busy staring at his left hand -- the one that's gripped the handle of his motorcycle, had been drenched in oil, fused with the neck of a bass, high-fived Uruha after beating Aoi and Kai at Super Mario Kart (again).  He's too enveloped in the words (words like _"heart nooses"_ and _"anywhere"_ ) that are suddenly _there_ , that had been written in the navy-black of his room, and Ruki notices.  
  
" _Oh_ , would you just --"  
  
And the words smudge and are abruptly replaced with Ruki's small hand.  Reita blinks, vision suddenly filled with callused fingers (scars from drumming, years of gripping pens and mics, decades seizing _art_ ) and black nail polish (that's chipping on the thumb).  
  
Ruki's eyes are fogged glass, morning still glazing his sepia irises even though it's nearing noon, and he raises a brow at Reita's slack jaw and lost gaze, "Forget how to read again?"  
  
Reita ignores the sardonic twist to the younger's mouth and memorizes the feel of Ruki's fingers against his palm, atop those words.  Words like _"morning gore"_ and _"mune ga ippai"_.  
  
"Why do you always close the blinds in the morning?"  
  
And because Ruki is the one who paints landscapes across shoulder blades and sinks his teeth into restless lyrics and smears charcoal across floorboards and  holds entire worlds between his fingertips -- he expects an answer that's riddled with metaphor.  One that sinks into his lungs so deep that  he has to gasp on the words all afternoon:  
  
 _Because I can pretend it's still night a little longer._  
  
Pretend it was my name you whispered into your sheets --   
  
That you asked me to stay over.  
  
Because then I have a couple more seconds --   
  
Until you wake up --  
  
Before --   
  
But Ruki is an artist.  
  
And 'abstract' is his favorite medium.    
  
"Because the sun burns my fucking corneas."  
  
  
And Reita understands.


End file.
